The Last Week Before Normalcy
In Which We Lack The Confidence We Try To Project
My boyfriend is thirty. He is also kind of my best friend's boyfriend. He and I kiss, but they talk. They get each other. We sleep in the same bed, the three of us. Clothed and usually there is no need for blankets because his apartment is so warm. If I sleep in the middle I touch both of them. If he sleeps in the middle he and I cuddle while her and his feet touch.
On Monday, Liora and I dropped acid. This was the second day of our three-way relationship, as far as it was no longer three friends and morphed into this specific triangle. Michael watched over us and smoked pot. Liora drove his car, and being in the car made me taste blood. They made jokes that sometimes would have made me laugh — dark, horrible, images wonderfully absurd — and I hallucinated vividly our deaths in a violent, crushing car accident.
Snakes hissed out of Michael's eyes.
Michael and I were in bed with the blankets as a tent and we were kissing and talking. I said I felt more relaxed than was usual. He said he couldn't relax because he was thinking about lust. And intelligence, and curiosity, and love. I had nothing to say. He's a rather fantastic writer, which I find intimidating. Michael is always intimidating, with his constant watching and psychoanalysis. He is, however, pretty cute.
